Yes, I know. These days it is
hard to believe I used to be one of the noted Burmese song writers. That I used
to speak Burmese more fluently than Shan. That I used to love wearing Burmese
longyis than pants.

When I got back to Taunggyi
last April to attend a reunion of my extended family, my cousins, nephews and
nieces were not only surprised, but also dismayed to find out that I couldn’t
even remember my own songs. “I remember every song you wrote,” said a cousin, who in
fact sang for me when I was asked to sing a song.

It wasn’t like that when I
moved from lower Burma back to Shan State in 1954. My father who had
participated in demonstrations against feudalist Saofas (Sawbwas) had fled to
join the First Shan Rifles, formed after Independence under the leadership of
Gen Tin Tut, who had worked with Aung San when he came to Panglong in 1947 to
participate in the conference that culminated in the signing of the historic
treaty.

I was six years old and spoke
Shan only with my grandfather and neighbors. Among us brothers and sisters
(actually cousins, as all our parents had left us in the care of our widowed
grandfather), who had all been brought up in Burma Proper, the lingua franca
among us was Burmese. We all read Burmese novels, sang Burmese songs and
dressed like Burmese do.

In 1962, following the coup,
we moved to Taunggyi where I was reunited with my parents. My father had left
the Burma Army, after he, along with his company, was removed from the Shan
Rifles to another unit, and spent years being transferred from one place to
another. I was 14 that year and, what’s more, I was in love — or thought I was,
after reading so many romances written by Burmese authors like Tetkatho Phone
Naing, who later became the head of the Taunggyi College, where I attended it in 1966. And like every teenager in love, I was
desperately in need of an outlet for my pent-up emotions. And I started to
write songs in Burmese. (Took me 4 years to produce the first song)

All in all, I was on my way to
becoming a Burman. Without shame. Or without regret.

Then, like most stories in
books, disaster struck in the form of a directive from U Tin Ko Ko, said to be
a Shan from Pyinmana (Burmese corruption of Piang Mark-na, meaning The Plain of
Myrobalan), and appointed by the coup leader Gen Ne Win as a member of the Shan
State Executive Council responsible for education. He wanted to continue the
Shan language classes, twice a week, and, to my horror, he wanted all male
students, both Shans and non-Shans alike, to wear Shan pants to school.

Yes, I remember I didn’t like
it at all. Why should I learn Shan? Has it become an official language in Shan
State? (It hadn’t) What good will come out of it by learning it? Such a waste
of time.

It was the same sentiments
with wearing pants. I thought longyis were more convenient for us males on any
occasion. What’s more, it’s cheaper. On the contrary, the baggy Shan pants were
really annoying, especially when you have to go to toilet, to relieve yourself,
unlike the longyi, which all you have to do is to lift the part of it that you
need to.

My disgust of the Shan pants
reached its zenith the morning when I was cycling to school and came across the
girl I had taken a shine on. I thought about chatting with her and if she’s
interested, which I was sure she was, would ask to sit on my bicycle’s backseat
to school.

Khuensai, 17, in Taunggyi

I softly called her name and
when she turned her head to look at me, I stopped the bike and lowered my left
feet to the ground. Unfortunately, my foot never reached it. My pants were
caught in the pedal, and I went crashing down to the ground, with the bicycle
on top.

Students then rushed to help
me. Someone lifted the bicycle off my back. Another picked up my glasses and
handed them back. And everyone was laughing. I was hurt. Moreover my youthful
pride was hurt. And I vowed to myself aloud, “I’m not going to be a Shan,
ever!”

The vow, like New Year’s
resolutions, did not last long.

Halfway through the next
academic year, the report came that U Tin Ko Ko had been stripped of his
positions and detained. Next came the new directive from the education
department: From now on, all male students shall no more wear Shan pants to
school, but only longyis. And, what’s more, no more Shan classes.

By all accounts, I should have
been happy about the whole affair. Figuratively speaking, hadn’t both of my prayers been answered?

But, to my own surprise, I was
starting to ask questions:

·Hey, what’s wrong with wearing pants? Is it a
crime to dress like a Shan coming to school?

·And what about not having to learn Shan? What’s
wrong with a Shan learning Shan? More than that, if it’s all right for
non-Burmans to learn Burmese, why shouldn’t non-Shans learn Shan, especially
when they are in Shan State?

I was young. I was rebellious.
Maybe we Shans have some blood akin to the Italians I read in one of Readers’
Digest funny stories, which goes something like this:

An ocean liner carrying international businessmen holding a business
convention is about to sink mid-ocean. The captain calls his chief mate and
orders him to inform the passagers that they have to escape by lifeboats now.

After a
while, the chief mate returns and informs the captain everyone is refusing to
leave. The captain listens and orders him to wait for him at the bridge and
goes out. A few minutes later, he is back and tells the mate they are the only
people left on the ship and they have to move fast before the ship goes down.
The mate asks him how he had pulled it off. And he answers:

“It’s
easy. With the British, I told them it’s sporting to abandon ship. They
went right off.

With the
French, I said its chic and elegant to leave the ship. They happily went
away.

With
Germans, I told them it’s an order. They obeyed.

With
Italians, I said they were not allowed to leave the ship, so they went.

Mate: What about the Americans?
What did you tell them?

Captain: Simple. I informed them they were
insured.

Anyway, from then on, I
started to learn Shan outside school hours and started wearing Shan pants, at
every opportunity offered. To spite the rulers, if not for anything else.

Which started me on the road
to politics and in due course rebellion.

In 1983, when I was appointed
as a representative to visit the Karen National Union (KNU), my Burmese had
become so rusty that I had to ask for an officer who was more at home with the
language to prompt me whenever I found myself at a loss for words.

It took me another 15 years to
find out what went wrong.

In 1998, I was at a seminar in
Chiangmai, where representatives from different branches of Tai, which includes
Shan, Thai, Laotians, Ahom, Leu (Lu), Yon (Muang), and Kheun (Khun), among
others, met.

During the break, I had a
chance to talk to the Leu representative from Sipsawngpanna (Xixuangbanna,
China), whom I told:

“I really envy your situation.”

Tai Leu: Why?

I: Because the Chinese
government is not only allowing you to learn Tai, but also encouraging and supporting
it. The same goes for your efforts to preserve and promote your culture. I wish
we in Burma are enjoying the same rights.

Tai Leu: You may be right. But, on
the contrary, we too feel envious of your situation.”

I: (Surprised) How is
that?

Tai Leu: Of course, you know the
Tai saying:

The fish lives
when the water is hot.

The fish dies
when the water is cold.

(Nam Hawn Pa
Pen, Nam Yen Pa Tai)

You Shans are
living under suppression, like a fish in hot water. You therefore do everything
to survive. So your literature and culture live on. However, we Tai Leu,
bestowed freedom by the Chinese government to preserve, promote and propagate
our literature and culture, face a bigger opponent – our own youth. Given a
choice between Tai and Chinese literatures and cultures, they are not interested
in their own heritage anymore. To them, the choice is to go the Chinese way.
Had our literature and culture been suppressed and strangled like you are,
these young people would have been easier to convince.

Since then, I have never
stopped wondering: Had successive Burmese governments been as enlightened and magnanimous
with the upkeep of Shan literature and culture, like the Chinese government is,
would I still choose to be Shan?